Scandalous Whisper




Georgian/Regency Romance
England, September 1818, and the Hon Mrs. Napier views the Earl of Kilder as a most desirable suitor for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Forced to engage with the extremely handsome and charming earl, a darker side to his nature is revealed and Christina despises his very presence. Worse, her twin brother cavorts with the earl in unmentionable pursuits, and equally bent on seeing her married to his favoured friend. Luckily, with the return of the 11th Dragoons from France, their eldest brother’s homecoming affords Christina brief respite from the earl’s overt attentions. 

So too, the man Christina admires above all others has returned to the Netherwood Estate. A chance meeting and lingering eye contact with her heart’s desire stirs rebellion within her. Her mother impervious to an act of wilful subterfuge insists Christina will marry the earl, but Christina indulges in secret liaisons with the man of her dreams. With deception retribution must follow and a cruel price is to be paid when Robert Lord Devonish is recalled to duty, the regiment bound for India. What will become of her now there is no one to save her from the earl’s clutches?



Scandalous Whisper.
Copyright © Francine Howarth
Black Velvet Books

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author.

Chapter One
~

The fire in the grate had become pitiful due to neglect of two people engrossed in respective books. There was barely a glimmer of red ember and not a wisp of smoke from fresh loaded coals. Christina shivered whilst her father lit another spill and again slid it beneath a log topping the coals. “Well my dearest girl, Napoleon seems content on St Helena, and I of mind we shall soon hear news of Julian’s return to home shores.”
   “In his last letter he did refer to Bonaparte. Something about how much easier to ensure he cannot escape this time, as happened on Elba.“
   She glanced away from the fire to see her father delighting in the flicker of flame from the tip of yet another spill. Several had already wasted in attempt to spark a fire beneath a slightly damp log. She suspected a fine cigar had come to mind.
   “I do not mind if you choose to smoke. I rather like the smell of a good cigar.”
   His face wrinkled into a smile, the spill quickly cast to the fire. “And suffer the wrath of your mother at this time of afternoon? I think not, though may partake of a little indulgence after dinner. It is, after all, the anniversary of our victory march into Paris.”
   “Wellington’s victory,” she chided, a smile, “and it’s September father, not July.”
   “Fair comment. Belated anniversary will do me.” He chuckled. “I doubt Wellington had any hand in the fighting at Waterloo, whereas young Devonish will have been in the thick of it alongside Julian.”
   Her heart rate soared, for Lord Devonish rarely entered in to conversation at Erdly Grange and mere mention of his name had this awful effect upon her. “Strange how we rent this house and grounds from his lordship and barely refer to him, yet he and Julian are of the same regiment.”
   Her father glanced at her this time, an inquisitive expression as he reached for another spill from the spill holder. “Where your mother leads we follow, and at present anything and every thing to do with the Earl of Kilder has her full attention.”
  “Christina . . . Christina,” came plaintiff call from her mother. Momentary silence descended, and then, “Oh dear, where is that girl now?”
  “In here,” she called, loud and unladylike, though her father’s expression that of amusement rather than shock horror. “I’m in the library . . . with father.”
  Their moment of sharing the delight of spills flaring on hot coals in the hearth was now lost, and the log no more inclined to burst into flame than before. Her father rose from his seat to accommodate her mother in the manner expected of a gentleman. She could not fault her father where manners were concerned, and she too slid from her seat: the spill pot left in front of the fire and damning evidence of their wicked pursuit.    
  Her mother bustled through the doorway face flushed and out of breath despite her trim figure and good legs. “Giles, a letter, a letter from Julian, she said, waving the thing before him. Sensing air of guilt about the pair of them her pale blue eyes instantly alighted on the spill pot but not a word of rebuke. “It is from Julian, is it not, though I fear his handwriting has suffered somewhat since we last heard from him.”
  With the letter thrust in to his hand her father plied its seal open and read the contents. His face suddenly drained of blood, as he said, “Dear Lord . . . Damnable news. Could have been worse, though, much worse.” Something in his expression proclaimed whatever had befallen Julian was bad. Her mother’s hand flew to mouth, and her own stomach heaved. He read on and then relayed her brother’s news. “Julian is coming home.” Her father faltered in posture, stepped back and slumped into his chair. “Good Lord. All this time and not a word . . . He lost the use of his left arm at Waterloo. It’s since been amputated.”
  Her mother promptly fainted and with luck and slight of hand it was easy to guide her into the vacant chair. Sense of loss pervaded the room and the gentle rhythmic tick-click, tick-click of the mantel clock a reminder of a once happy and carefree childhood.
  Julian, the elder, and her twin brother the antagonist, had often indulged in running battles throughout the house, and on one particular day both had ended up in the library fists flying. Hence tick-click of the clock, which at one time had had a defined tick-tock sound. Tears brimmed. She fought them back, for Julian was alive. He was one of the lucky soldiers, and coming home. 
  Her father spoke, then. “This will break him, Christina, break him. He’s a light dragoon to the very core and all that that entails.”
  “But he’s coming home with two legs,” she said, whilst fanning her mother’s face with rapidly acquired fan from occasional table. “We must be thankful for small mercies.”
  “You are right, dear girl,” he said, regaining upright posture, “and no doubt the young blighter will be riding to hounds before Christ’s mass.”
  Her mother finally rallied. Blinked her eyes and said, “Oh dear, oh dear. Did I disgrace myself?”
  “Not in the least, dearest,” said father, a sly wink. “What with the shock of it all, my backside met with seat quicker than anticipated.”
  “Oh Christina, what are we to do. What shall we say to him?”  Her mother looked helplessly to her father. “Giles, I fear I will not, will not be able to face his loss.”
  “You must, Anne,” intoned her father, face grave, “and be brave for his sake.”
  The front door opened and almost immediately slammed shut again.
  “That will be James returned from his ride,” she said, as each looked one to the other: manly voices drifting their way.
  Her father once again rose from his seat. “I shall have a quiet word,” he said, and made toward the door.
  It was but a moment before James appeared in the doorway, Simon Hathaway, Earl of Kilder at his elbow. “Bad news, indeed, mother,” he said, expression unreadable.
  Surely he could not be delighting in Julian’s misfortune, yet she sensed nuance of triumph, for never again would Julian wrestle him to the ground as he had many times in the past. She studied James dark blue eyes, unruly dark collar length hair, his defiant stance and wiry frame. Alike enough to be noted as brother and sister, save her hair waist length when it lay across her shoulder undressed. Twins were supposed to be able to connect. Alas, she had never fully understood him, never understood why they were so very different in thoughts and actions.
  Simon eased past James, bowed and said, “My condolences Mrs. Napier. I shall take my leave. You will have much to discuss.” He turned, and with polite nod, said, “Miss Napier,” and the way that he said it chilled her to the bone.
  He was playing to her mother, playing on her mother’s fanciful romantic leanings. No doubt James had informed him he was thought of as a suitable suitor and future son-in-law. 
  Mother, always enamoured by the earl’s flattery, stole the moment. “Dearest Earl, do not leave on account of our misfortune. You are most welcome to stay, and your presence will cheer Christina no end. We are about to take afternoon tea.” She smiled sweetly. “And it’s crumpet day.”
  “How could I possibly refuse one of your tempting treats, dear lady.”
  How dare her mother throw her only daughter at the earl in that shocking manner? And how dare his chestnut eyes glitter in that way whilst appraising her as he might a mare, and right in front of her mother. Her mother giggled, of all things, giggled, and then hurried on her way. James, too, standing there as though nothing had happened. How could they so lightly allow news of Julian’s injury to pass as though a mere inconvenience to their cosy every day life, such as it was at Erdley Grange.
  James slapped the earl’s shoulder, said, “Refuse a Napier crumpet? Not a chance.” He chuckled, his eyes as always mocking her when in company with the earl. “Come dear fellow, take a seat ‘til the tea bell summons.”
  This was her worst nightmare: her brother and the Earl of Kilder in the same room and no means of ready escape. The earl smiled, a captivating smile, which she imagined most young ladies would be quite taken with. He was, after all, a man of good taste in clothing, incredibly handsome of face, and of decent height desired by most women. He was, though, equally as immoral as her twin.
  She knew them to be well acquainted with gambling dens, and more than familiar with ladies of some reputation. Yet her parents remained seemingly ignorant or purposefully blind to their wild ways. To all intents and purposes the pair were as cunning as the foxes they hunted, with exception of their boasting once too often. She had, though not with due intention, overheard an account of a particular exploit involving a woman of some notoriety, their laughter and description of what had occurred quite sickening.
  No, she could never entertain the idea of her and the earl as a couple. Her mother could think it possible all she liked, but if ever it was suggested she marry the earl she would call on her father’s moral standpoint to win the day for her. He would never sanction a betrothal once the earl’s bawdy lifestyle made mention of and therefore exposed.
  “You look somewhat disapproving, sister,” said James, hands held open to meagre flame from the coals. “What tales of our exploits have you keened this time?”
  “I never listen to idle gossip, you know that,” too readily slipped her lips, and more akin to terrier at a fox’ hole than a well-bred young lady. She so wished she had not risen to his baited remark.
  The earl glanced over his shoulder, hands likewise held to warm before the fire and the log now flaming as though the Devil involved in its blazing glory.  Having refrained from taking her father’s seat and instead down on one knee, the earl promptly rubbed his hands together in vigorous manner then regained his feet.
  “Miss Napier, please . . .do come and sit beside the fire.  You’ve had a severe shock, and standing in the draft from that window will do you more ill than good.”  He gestured for her to take her father’s seat. “Please, I beg of you, do not take ill on my account.”
  Luckily the tea bell sounded and she thanked the earl’s gesture with slight bow of head, and secretly thanked Mollie the maid. She was so glad to escape the draft at her back and the compromising situation of proposed ménage by the fireside. 
  “Tea is served, but why in the morning room is one of mother’s peculiarities,” said James to his feet. His hands went directly to the bottom of his silk waistcoat and a quick tug deployed to straighten any creases occurred when hands previous to the fire. He was, without doubt, quite the dandy as was his companion. “Why not take tea here? I’ve asked her that, time and time again. It’s less formal and more amenable to intimate chatter. But no . . . Mother insists we sit in a circle and every one of us forced to engage with the oldies.”
  The earl held out his arm for her to link with him, and it pained her to accept his civil gesture for it was all part of his way in winning her mother’s overt approval as the right suitor for her hand in marriage. She knew it, he knew it, and James purposefully orchestrated proceedings with the skill of artistic director to one of Shakespeare’s plays.  But Julian would be home soon, and Julian would see through these two as she had. With a little encouragement he would no doubt make the earl’s reputation known to mother. Her own desperate avoidance of marriage to Simon Hathaway Earl of Kilder, hopefully then resolved for good. 

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